Free Dance Until Dawn by Berni Stevens

haunting
it
.
Fancy that
. Its houses and apartments were astronomically expensive, and it did tend to veer towards the pretentious sometimes, yet still managed to retain a wealth of old-world charm. Hampstead had really captured my imagination from my very first visit. I loved it here. Somewhat misguidedly, I’d even thought I might actually live in Hampstead one day. Unfortunately, when I checked out a few estate agents in the vicinity, it didn’t take too long to discover that the paltry salary of a dancer wouldn’t come anywhere near to buying a litter-bin in the area, let alone an apartment.
    A lot of Hampstead’s inhabitants were actors, writers, and well-known artists, including an infamous talk show host and his glamorous script writer wife, with a few millionaires thrown in for good measure. Famous authors seem to have migrated to Hampstead in their droves over the years, as many a blue plaque gracing an old house proclaimed. The most famous by far was the nineteenth-century poet John Keats. Although he only lived in Hampstead for a relatively short time, he managed to gain both a blue plaque and the dubious honour of having his house turned into a museum.
    But it was such a wonderful place to visit – both in good weather and bad. The good weather always drew people out for long walks on the vast expanse of the Heath, and to Kenwood House for open-air concerts and firework displays. There’s always something going on in Hampstead.
    During the winter and bad weather, the plethora of good restaurants and lively bars still attracted plenty of people, not forgetting the ever-popular Everyman Theatre.
    I’d always felt that Hampstead looked like a beautiful rural town that had been dropped into North London by mistake. Although a hundred years ago it would have been a country town – maybe even a village. I remembered from somewhere that it had been a spa town in the seventeenth century, a fact proven by the existence of an old pub called
The Flask
, where people had travelled many miles to get their flasks filled with Hampstead’s healthy spa water. Where I had actually
obtained
that particular piece of information still eluded me. My capacity for hoarding trivial information had clearly returned to full strength. But I still longed for the more important memories to return … like where the hell I’d met Mr Spooky Will Whatever-His-Other-Name-Is.
    A lot of my favourite shops graced Hampstead’s elegant High Street, and also some of my favourite cafes. I had no idea whether or not vampires ate proper food, but I somehow doubted they could. I felt convinced that eating in restaurants and cafes would now become another part of my past.
    I looked in at a shop window as we passed on our way uphill, and came to an abrupt halt in front of its gleaming surface.
    No reflections.
    No me, and no Will. Just as he’d said the other night.
Nothing
.
    I remembered my dream of a few nights ago, if it
had
been a dream. Just what the hell was going on with my head? I rubbed at the shop window with the sleeve of my sweatshirt and in my mind’s eye I saw the bathroom mirror back in my flat.
    I rubbed at the bathroom mirror. All I could see reflected in it was the bathroom.
    Not myself.
    What the—?
    I rubbed at the mirror again, making the sleeve of my top sodden from the steam, and I pressed my fingertips against the now shiny surface.
    Nothing.
    No me.
    Tentatively, I ran my hands over my face. Everything was where it should be. I could feel my nose, cheeks, mouth
 …
I looked down at my body and it looked perfectly normal to me. It was definitely there. Okay
 …
whatever I’d eaten after the show last night – if I could remember what the hell I had eaten last night – was never going to be on my menu again.
    What was it with my dreams at the moment? Perhaps I should just never eat again, and then I’d have pleasant dreams. I’d be really skinny too.
    I went back into my bedroom, and looked around at yet more